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Thursday, November 26, 2009

I love Thanksgiving and absolutely everything about it (well, except clean up.) This year, like usual, Rambo and I are going up to my parents house for the holiday along with my Grandma, and brothers. Let me set the mood for you using all the senses.

(Sense of Smell) The house will smell heavenly all day because of the turkey that is being slow-roasted. (Sense of Sight) You’ll see mom and I in the kitchen and I’ll probably be the one stuck with peeling a million freaking potatoes as usual. David may make an appearance to mash the potatoes, but it sort of depends on if he is in the middle of some sort of video game or not. (Sense of Taste) Eventually someone will roam into the kitchen, stick his dirty little finger and taste-test something. I understand, Mom and I make the house smell amazing and you can’t resist, but I warn you (Sense of Touch) if I catch you I will smack you. Only those cooking can taste-test. (Sense of Sound) You’ll likely hear the sounds of the Thanksgiving Day Parade, a football game, and sibling rivalry and bickering at its finest (we have to get a few months of it into just a couple of days after all.)

This has been the norm for 19 years. Because 19 years ago, a fat little turkey named David came into our lives and completed our family on Thanksgiving Day.

Ian (left) and David (right) a couple of years ago. I wanted to put up a baby pic of David, but it would have required scavenging and scanning.

David’s actual birthday is the 22nd, but I’ll always think of him as the Turkey baby because he was the one who actually managed to be born on a holiday (I was one day off of Valentine’s Day and Ian was one day off St. Patty’s.)

I remember being dropped off at a family friend’s in the neighborhood with Ian and knowing that when my parents came back I would have a little brother or little sister. Naturally I had a request in for a little sister, but either I didn’t ask it loud enough or often enough because my parents came home with another little boy. Our Turkey baby.

Looking back it’s much better that David was a boy. Dressing a girl up as a girl, doing her hair and make-up and making her pose like a model for pictures is not nearly as fun as dressing a boy up as a girl, doing HIS hair and make-up and making him pose like a model for pictures (strangely, none of these photos can be found.) I then proceeded to order him up the stairs to show Dad, only to hear, “Get that Sh!t off of him right now!”

Cleary I was blessed to have another little brother. And even though David is now 19, and much taller than me, he will always be my little brother and Turkey baby.